


Mea Maxima Culpa?

by subito



Category: Political RPF - UK 21st c.
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Other, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/pseuds/subito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gove, introspective</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mea Maxima Culpa?

The flame burns bright but sheds no light. There is too much darkness, literally and figuratively, just too much. Michael tries to push it away and not get wrapped up in it but it’s too late for that. Over the last few days a sort of diffusion has taken place and he just can’t take any more. It’s supposed to be state of equilibrium but it feels more like all the darkness of the world is inside him now.

The strangest part is that he can and can’t see the reason for it. Decisions have to be made and he always makes them with the best interests at heart. He should be used to it by now: Meaning well but being punished for it. It has always been like that and, until now, he has come out of it with his head held high. Whenever he was involved, people were always faster to jump to conclusions and cheered louder when proven right. Maybe it was envy - or plain hatred.

Michael takes the finger and dips it into the hot wax of the candle. It doesn’t even sting anymore. Too many punishments at school had involved wax or similar things which wouldn’t leave a visible mark and as much as he wants to believe that those things didn’t change him, they did. When he started work, there was no one to tell him off. He didn’t make one mistake in his first seven months so in the eighth he made one on purpose. There hadn’t even been shouting.

He takes the piece of wood he carries around since those days and holds it into the flame. It ignites with a lazy but angry red glow, which promises the sort of fake relief Michael needs right now. All those years back it had taken him some time to find the right method. Cutting hadn’t worked for him, the rough sensation of skin scraping over walls soon became his preferred method. And fights.

But he couldn’t get into fights very often and couldn’t tell anyone what exactly it was he needed from them. When he thinks about it now, there is the realisation that this plays a big part in his strange infatuation with Ed. All those times he had provoked him and pushed him towards the edge… always hoping he might crack and just hit him. Which Ed never did .Instead, Michael takes all the insults with a grin and stores them away for a time like this, when they bite into his flesh with every coming down of the glowing piece of wood.

Michael always uses the inside of his upper arm, a place no one ever sees. The flesh is especially soft there or used to be. Nowadays it is a map of guilt, a web of red and white lines. He exhales at the moment when his skin is being burned and presses down harder when he feels the pain. Four more times. One for each ten letters of complaints he received that week.

The air feels even cooler against his skin for a minute until the marks start to burn. He doesn’t cover them up, not yet. He doesn’t want to risk them opening up and spoiling everything. He will have to give an interview tomorrow and knowing those fresh lines are there will get him through it.

He works hard after that, until deep into the night. The sleep depravation isn’t intended but it helps the feeling of atonement. Before he leaves the bathroom the next morning, he gives himself a few good slaps. The face is taboo normally but lately, all the things considered taboo have become fair game. He has done things he isn’t proud of and people have treated him worse then ever.

Ironically, they praise him for the things he hates and those things he has worked on to define and define until he got the best result, they attack him over. People always do that, interpreting things the wrong way around. And when the interviewer comments on how healthy he looks because of his rosy cheeks, Michael wants to laugh in his face. He presses a finger against the swollen skin on his inner upper arm and thinks: Culpa. Culpa rubet vultus meus.


End file.
